


Presence

by jaclynhyde



Category: Star Wars: Hand of Thrawn Duology - Timothy Zahn, Star Wars: Thrawn Trilogy - Timothy Zahn
Genre: Angst, Identity Porn, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-05 05:51:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1090365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaclynhyde/pseuds/jaclynhyde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pellaeon had always known how to recognize a lost cause. But even ten years after his death, he couldn’t quite bring himself to let go of Grand Admiral Thrawn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Presence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ks_villain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ks_villain/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Присутствие](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9537971) by [Schuu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schuu/pseuds/Schuu), [Star_Wars_dark_Side](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Star_Wars_dark_Side/pseuds/Star_Wars_dark_Side)



> For ks_villain, who wanted a Yuletide fic about Thrawn/Pellaeon and/or Flim. Many thanks to my lovely beta vanishinghitchhiker, who came up with the title and a hundred little improvements; ks_villain, for inspiring prompts and awesome Flim (and Thrawn, and Pellaeon) fic; and everyone else who writes Thrawn/Pellaeon, because I’ve read like every fic a dozen times. And, of course, to Timothy Zahn.

"I expected better from you, Captain."

Pellaeon knew he was dreaming, of course. Even his subconscious knew very well that Thrawn was dead. That Thrawn had never stood beside him on an empty bridge, had never seen Pellaeon in an admiral’s uniform. But the nauseous dread of disappointing him, even the grief—that remained, ten years of dreaming on.

“We’ve had this conversation more times than I can count, Admiral,” he said wearily. “I am not, and I will never be, ashamed to seek peace. My nightmares—” of Thrawn, increasingly— “are just that.”

Thrawn simply looked at him, eyes cold—and that look of disappointment was so familiar, even if it had never been fully aimed at Pellaeon in life. "My apologies, you're a _rational_ being. Very well then, Captain: why would you persist in dreaming of my disapproval if you weren't convinced of its certainty?"

“ _Admiral_ ,” he corrected, meeting Thrawn’s blazing eyes. “Do you think I’ve decided to surrender on a moment’s whim? I stand by—”

Thrawn held up his hand, and Pellaeon stopped as surely as if he’d been ordered. “I would think that you could tell the difference between a prudent retreat and the actions of a man who cannot do any better. Endor, Bilbringi—and now not even an unwinnable battle as an excuse.” Despite himself, Pellaeon flinched—and by the cruel twist of his lip, it was evident Thrawn noticed. “I expected you would live up to the potential I thought I saw in you. I’ve made more than one poor decision on whom to trust, it seems.”

“I’m Supreme Commander of the Imperial Fleet,” he bit out. “I’ve given decades of my life to the Empire. I’m past the need to prove my worth.”

“The Empire has seen what a truly great leader can do, _Commander_. Mere competence is not enough. I would never debase the Empire to grovel at the feet of the Rebellion—”

"Then you would be _wrong_ , Thrawn!" he roared. "You were wrong when it mattered most. You were wrong. You—you _died_ because of it." His vision blurred, then, and he could half-see a crimson stain spreading on Thrawn's chest. "I don't have your genius—no one alive does. To follow your path would be to doom the living chasing the glory of the dead. I will not throw lives away. Not even for the Empire that once was."

Stepping this close to a superior officer, toe to toe, was a clear case of insubordination. But this—this figment of his imagination was not his superior officer. "And I don't believe Thrawn would, either."

Thrawn’s eyes glittered, so close to his. “Is that so?” he asked, softly. "By your logic, I cannot be Thrawn. In that case, you've lost all you have left of him."

He turned away from Pellaeon, stepping to look out the forward ports with hands clasped behind his back. Strange, that even now, such a familiar pose made Pellaeon’s chest hurt.

"Tell me, Pellaeon. Is it worth it?"

For a long moment, Pellaeon looked at him, at the sliver of blue skin at the edge of his gloves, the set of his shoulders, the blue-black hair brushing the nape of his neck.

Ten years later, and he still _missed_ him.

"I don't know."

******

Gilad Pellaeon was halfway to Bastion when he received the message on his private comlink. Ah, perhaps it was the discreet report he’d requested on Disra—the more evidence he had before he confronted the Moff in person, the better.

Or perhaps it was more information on the alleged return of Grand Admiral Thrawn.

And yet, as Pellaeon read over the rough outline of a fragile peace treaty, he found it difficult to concentrate on rumors and the machinations of a petty politician. Distracted by a tricky piece of wording, he pressed play.

“Admiral Pellaeon,” said Thrawn’s voice, and the datapad fell from his hands.

“It’s long past time we spoke in person.” His voice was professional—but not cold, not angry. “I apologise for the delay, but my Corellian flame miniatures suggest that you would still appreciate this meeting.”

The candle-like sculptures from his homeworld, the art he only knew of because Thrawn had shown them to him.

Thrawn’s appreciation of art itself was hardly common knowledge—and _this_?

The recording continued with a time and location to meet on Bastion, and a request to come alone. A voice could be imitated, a message pieced together from existing recordings, but that easy air of command that made Pellaeon’s stomach tighten—that was not so easily faked.

He listened to the message a dozen times, and he still couldn’t pick out any decisive evidence that this—this man who called himself Thrawn was a fraud. In his dreams that night, he still sat at his desk, listening. When he looked up from the datapad to see Thrawn watching him, he asked, "Is it you?”

His arms folded, Thrawn shrugged. “I cannot know any more than you.”

Pellaeon closed his eyes, ignoring the dull ache in his heart. Perhaps he was wrong to rid his dream of the pretense of reality. “Of course. But if I were you—” he didn’t acknowledge Thrawn’s raised eyebrow— “what would I think?”

Thrawn leaned against the wall, and it was strange to see him standing so casually.  “There is the strong possibility you’re walking into a trap.”

Pellaeon shook his head. “How could anyone imitate your voice so exactly _and_ know I’m on my way to Bastion _and_ know exactly what piece of art you happened to show me one day?”

“How could I survive a knife through the heart? My survival is nearly impossible. So is a proper imitation of me. So, Admiral, is it worth the chance?”

“I—” Pellaeon swallowed and continued, softly. “I’m hardly unbiased. I would very much like to see you again.” With a sigh, he rubbed at his moustache. “If this is Thrawn, I don’t understand his motives in waiting to contact me." He half-smiled. "Then again, I suppose I often didn’t understand his motives. Until he explained his strategy and every movement suddenly made sense.”

“Which didn’t stop your objections,” Thrawn said with a quirk of his lips.

Despite himself, Pellaeon felt his lips curve in return. “Of course not. What kind of commander would I be to follow such insane orders without a word?” His smile fell as he murmured, “The question is, why does he want to see me now?”

“No.” He stepped away from the wall, eyes boring into Pellaeon’s. “The question is, what would you do if you see Thrawn again?”

There were very many things he could say to him. But— “I’m not entirely sure,” he said, because he’d never actually allowed himself to imagine that far. And because it all depended on what Thrawn had to say, after so long. “Hand over my command to him, certainly.”

“And if he has a plan to win the war?”

“Then I will advise against it, but I will defer to his military judgement,” Pellaeon said, evenly. “And I will take my retirement.”

There was a half-smile on Thrawn’s face. “What kind of commander, indeed.” He touched the Corellian flame miniature on the corner of his desk, one that Pellaeon was fairly sure hadn’t been there at the beginning of their conversation. “He is right about you. You’ll go.”

Pellaeon took a deep breath. “How could I not?”

Of course there was no miniature resting on his desk when he awoke—that would be impossible.

He still had to swallow back disappointment.

******

It wasn’t Thrawn.

He bore an uncanny resemblance to the man—had he been the correct species, Pellaeon would have guessed he were Thrawn’s brother. But to someone who had made the effort to meet Thrawn’s eyes, every day for a year, it was clear that the life behind them was masked. Glowing eye surface inserts, most likely hiding ordinary human eyes below them.

He wasn’t Thrawn.

And yet, when the man smiled a familiar smile, Pellaeon couldn’t breathe.

“Admiral Pellaeon,” he said in Thrawn’s voice. “I apologize for my long absence.”

Pellaeon closed his eyes, only ingrained Imperial discipline keeping him from immediately confronting the impostor. He was no actor—not like this man clearly was—but if he wanted any chance to gather data on his connection to Disra, he’d better learn to improvise. “Admiral,” he said softly, and it wasn’t hard at all to sound shaken.

The man inclined his head, just slightly—Pellaeon suspected he was looking away for effect. “I wanted to ask your forgiveness, Admiral.” Pellaeon had never seen Thrawn looking contrite, looking almost—well, _human_ , so to speak—but of course, he would have looked just like this. A masterful performance, really. “I assure you, I didn’t intend to exclude you from my plans for so long. On the contrary—I was planning to ask for your assistance with my return.”

“Then—” The words caught in his throat. “Then why? I find it difficult to believe anything could prevent you from contacting me if you truly wanted.”

“As I’m sure you found it difficult to believe I could have overlooked an entire species turned traitorous,” he said, a small smile on his lips. “I am not often reluctant to admit to my mistakes. Yet I’ve found it—” he paused, swallowed— “ _difficult_ to face you. To admit I hurt you.”

Saying exactly what Pellaeon wanted to hear, of course. “I can’t deny I was—hurt,” he said, stiffly. “I assumed you had your reasons.”

“No,” the man said, softly. “Circumstances. Excuses. But no reasons that would justify leaving you alone.”

It was Pellaeon’s turn to look away, a blur of blue and white teasing at the corner of his eye. Did the impostor know they were never that close, he and Thrawn? That he was disappointed, but unsurprised at the news that Thrawn had returned and not contacted him?

He’d barely even felt betrayed.  

“It’s enough to know you’re alive.” His voice was almost a whisper.

His smile was— _fond_ was the only word Pellaeon could think of. “I appreciate that, Admiral. Gilad.” And Pellaeon’s breath caught, because the man had taken a step closer.

Thrawn wasn’t so tall, was he? He was a few centimeters shorter than this man, surely, and his eyes weren't quite so bright— Surely, the impostor couldn’t be—

“I have missed you,” the man said, softly, and his gloved hand moved to touch Pellaeon’s arm—

With a wave of self-disgust, Pellaeon wrenched his arm away. He wasn’t collecting _data_. He was nothing more than a sad old man clinging to the memory of a man ten years dead. “You’ve misinterpreted your sources, I’m afraid.” He held the glowing red eyes for a silent moment. “I was never involved with Grand Admiral Thrawn.”

The man let out a breath—and with a slight slouch of his shoulders, Thrawn was gone. “It was a long shot,” he said, voice wry and no longer familiar.

He had to close his eyes, for a moment, at the sharp ache in his heart. “You have me at a disadvantage.”

The man huffed a laugh. “And I intend it to stay that way. Sorry, but I’m not making it that easy to lock me away. I have a lot of credits to collect.”

Pellaeon had taken precautions against an attempt on his life—but there were other ways to undermine his influence. “If you’re intending to blackmail me—”

“Please. I may not be Thrawn, but I’m not _stupid._ ” Folding his arms, he continued, “This wasn’t going to last in the first place, and I’d rather not have history repeat itself in my back. And if I did manage to not die—it’d be you, figuring it out in the end. It’s out of character for Thrawn not to see you, and you know it.”

“So you thought seduction was the best approach,” Pellaeon said, voice even. It wasn’t an unthinkable leap of logic. At least one of Pellaeon’s infrequent dalliances with men was part of his official record, buried in his academy years.

As for his interest in Thrawn—well, he half-suspected it was clear, if one knew where to look.

The man grinned, an off-putting expression on Thrawn’s face. “You’d be surprised how many people are intrigued by the uniform and a touch of the exotic—”  The impostor’s voice faltered as he met Pellaeon’s eyes. “Look, I read his memoirs. If it helps, I thought he might be interested. Something in the way he talked about you.”

Pellaeon smiled wearily. Still saying exactly what he wanted to hear, even after he’d lost.

And even if, unthinkably, he was telling the truth—it was ten years too late. Ten years too late and exactly as impossible as it had been back then. “It doesn’t.”

“I’m sorry,” the man said, and he actually sounded sincere. Of course, he was a very good actor. “Say we both pretend this never happened?”

Pellaeon turned to look at the art on the far wall, severe and colorless—he wondered what species painted it. “I should have my men arrest you,” he said, softly.

But he was too weary to arrest this pawn, this man of no importance, while galactic peace and Colonel Vermel’s fate demanded his full attention. Pellaeon had no direct evidence connecting him with Disra, he could casually reveal how he planned to gain Pellaeon’s trust and why—

He didn't want to see him with ordinary human eyes.

Pellaeon thumbed on his comlink. “Inform spaceport control I’ll be leaving to see Moff Disra. Return to the _Chimaera._ I’ll join you shortly.” He took a breath, and turned the comlink off.

For a long moment, there was silence behind him.

“Close your eyes, Captain,” said the voice of Thrawn.

He obeyed, let the gentle touch on his shoulder turn him around. Even though he was half-expecting it, he started at the touch of lips against his, gentle and slightly cool—

And perhaps for just one moment, he could believe that this was really Thrawn, that it was those familiar hands resting on his waist, that it was his living heart beating against Pellaeon’s. What else could he do but reciprocate? What else could he do but kiss him, pressing closer to the warmth of Thrawn’s body and it was just like he always—

Finally, somehow, Pellaeon moved away. His hands were trembling on—on the actor’s arms. He’d chosen good makeup, Pellaeon thought, inanely. His lips weren’t smudged at all.

He forced his attention back to the impostor’s eyes, only Thrawn’s in the most superficial manner. The man was watching him, no hint of mockery in his face, but Pellaeon couldn’t read the look in his eyes at all.

Perhaps the eyes weren’t so different as he would have liked to believe.

Thrawn touched his cheek, gently, and left.

******

Vermel had been freed, the conspirators’ plans had fallen apart, and Pellaeon was in possession of a datachip. A datachip Flim had slipped into his hand as he passed by, as he didn’t look to see the white-gloved hand brushing his own.

A datachip containing the memoirs of an alien called Mitth’raw’nuruodo, begun upon his exile to the edge of Imperial space in order to practice his Basic.

He didn’t know where to start, after the first entry. There was so much, so much more than he’d ever known about Thrawn, his people, his thoughts. He found himself scrolling through the list of entries, watching the dates move closer to Bilbringi and wondering how long until they stopped.

One entry near the end was marked. A marker added only a few days ago, he saw, by one ‘F’. When he opened the entry, he understood why: it wasn’t a journal entry. It was a _will_.

Heart beating faster, Pellaeon skimmed the text, looking for—his name. Helpfully marked by ‘F,’ again. His name, and a sentence leaving him the moss painting _Killik Twilight_ and Thrawn’s own ch’hala tree.

He had to press at his eyes, then, to stem the tears threatening.

He’d always wondered.

With a swipe of his eyes, he stood. The _Killik Twilight_ was in the care of the Moffs, no doubt, as Thrawn’s memoirs apparently had been. If the idiots hadn’t let it rot due to its lack of military significance, of course. But the ch’hala tree remained on the _Chimaera,_ shuffled to the command room—he’d seen it a thousand times and never realized it came from Thrawn’s quarters. It would be easy enough to just go and move it to his.

Pellaeon had kept a window garden, growing up on Coruscant.

He wondered how Thrawn knew.

******

He dreamed of Thrawn for the first time since he met Flim. Hardly surprising, considering what he had found hidden in the roots of the ch’hala tree as he transplanted it from an outgrown pot.

"You left me a message."

He'd never seen Thrawn smile quite like that in life—but it suited him, somehow. "Of course. You didn't dream the recording, if that's what you're asking."

"I know. You called me Captain," he said, softly. "Either you had a remarkably poor outlook on my chances for promotion, or you didn't expect the Council of Moffs to treat your possessions as their personal property for a decade after your death."

Thrawn’s smile turned wry. "Quite. I might have ensured my records were left in the hands of someone I trusted."

"The Empire of the Hand?" Strange, to think that someone was privy to Thrawn’s plans, and it hadn’t been Pellaeon.

"And you,” he said, softly. “By the way, Admiral, you missed one clear indication I hadn’t truly returned.” Thrawn smiled, warm and genuine. "You should have known I wouldn't be disappointed in you."

Pellaeon had to turn away, then, to look out at the stars. So many of them, and so many more possibilities than he’d been resigned to. “Are your clones really out there?” he asked, watching two reflected pinpoints of red floating among the stars.

He could see the faint reflection of Thrawn’s shoulders moving in a small shrug. “Does it matter? They’ve arrived too late to save the Empire—I might argue it’s already been saved."

“Of course,” Pellaeon said drily. “Peace ensures the Empire will never again need the guidance of a military genius.”

"You know there's no guarantee my mind will be the same, only my memories. A clone may be no more use than a talkative version of my memoirs."

Pellaeon swallowed past the lump in his throat. “It matters, Thrawn. Even if you are no longer the savior of the Empire...I would be honored to have the chance to be your friend.”

He could feel Thrawn’s hand resting on his shoulder, just long enough to give it a squeeze. “And I yours, Gilad,” he said, voice soft.

"The galaxy will survive without you, Thrawn. As will I." He turned to look at Thrawn, identical to the man he last saw ten years ago. What would he look like with deeper lines on his face, with grey in his hair? "But I would much prefer it if you were there."

With a faint smile, Thrawn stepped away. "I appreciate the sentiment, Admiral." Pellaeon watched him as he walked to the door. His hand on the door panel, Thrawn looked back. "I'll see what I can do."

Smiling, Pellaeon looked out at the stars once more. It had been so long since he had felt hope, real hope for the future—it was almost overwhelming for so much to come at once. But he had a treaty to negotiate, the Hand of Thrawn to contact, and clones to seek out. He would just have to get used to the feeling.

As for Flim’s theory about Thrawn’s feelings—well. He had time enough to find out.


End file.
